Urgency. | Matthew Healy

c/four. undo

God knows what would have happened if I didn't focus on writing or if Matty hadn't gone out for drinks with the boys. Having a few days off is certainly pure bliss, and I have plans on making the most of them.

I continue to write until another two short verses end up in my notebook.

It's him, every day and night
She tried to forget, but he came back
Out and back with might
No matter the courage he lacked

What an admirable man
With such peculiar sight
No desire to hold her hand
No need for tango in the night

I smirk at my shameless Fleetwood Mac reference. I'm sure Matty would love that.

Of course. These two paragraphs are about Matty, and so were the previous two, and the ones before that. I wish something else managed to riddle my mind that wasn't Matty.

I continue to stare at my unfinished work and sigh. This is still not good enough. I rip the page and make my famous paperball, tossing it out of my bunk bed, making a mental note to pick it up later, except I never hear it hit the ground, but I hear a whine instead.

I peek my head out of the bunk bed curtain to see Matty's mate, Adam, wincing and touching his forehead.

"You've got mad precision, is the songwriting process really going that bad?" He chuckles, a hand still on his head.

I nervously laugh. "I'm sorry, I thought you were all still out for drinks." I simply reply.

I've never really been fond of Matty's bandmates, mainly because they never let me sleep with their constant sexual encounters. Matty used to be like that at first, but he's stopped for reasons I still don't know.

Those encounters are part of the reason the rest of the boys are rarely in the bus, since we had to come to an agreement. They spend an obnoxious amount of money in hotels and girls every month, which is only a brief history of their constant one night stands, but I get to sleep. Everything comes at a price, right?

"Valerie?" Adam called out my name, snapping me from my moment.

"Yeah?" I look at Adam, confusion displaying on his face.

He sniggers. "You're way out, lady. Good night." He climbs into his bunk bed after waving goodbye.

I'm slightly taken aback by his comment. "What do you mean, 'way out?' " I climb out of my bunk bed and stand in front of his, not wanting to invade his space.

He starts to giggle this time around while he tries to suppress one of his famous smirks. "Sorry, can't reply. Sleeping!" He closed his curtain and left me confused.

What was that giggle about?

I sighed and sat down besides the bus' kitchen, grabbing a late night glass of wine and proceeding to continue my reading of one of the books I stole from Matty's road collection.

Yeah, we have a big level of trust, but what can I say? We just connect that easily.

I finish reading the first twenty pages of what I assume would be my hour-long read, but I am stopped by the presence of a pink post-it note that has been sticked to page number one hundred and fifteen, spotting a poem by Matty's very favorite author, Allen Ginsberg. It read:

Will we walk all night through solitary streets? The trees add shade to

shade, lights out in the houses, we'll both be lonely.

Will we stroll dreaming of the lost America of love past blue automobiles in

driveways, home to our silent cottage?

I fail to recognize the poem that's written on the note, but I can only imagine it's one of Matty's favorites. Why he would stick it in a book though, that's beyond me. Maybe the page number meant something to him? Or maybe there was something in this page that reminded him of the poem? God knows what goes through this man's brain, but it's always been fascinating to me. Such a shame he wastes it by drowning it in wine, weed and girls.

I find myself staring at the note for a good two minutes, contemplating wether or not removing it would make an impact on Matty the moment I place the book back in it's place. Perhaps he was using the note as a bookmark? Or maybe it was a moment of inspiration.

I hear the bus' door opening and I flinch, quickly closing the book, leaving the note in and picking up my half-filled cup of wine. I put the book away in a nearby kitchen counter.

Matty strides towards me. "Hey." His eyes are bloodshot and his pupils dilated, his hair wild and his button-down shirt is no longer button-down, as all of the buttons have been undone. Marks of lips that were painted red decorate his chest and are prominent in his mouth.

Well, I suppose he picked it back up.

He'd gone out partying, yet again. A drug-involved, sex-fueled party, which is, as I've described beforehand, a waste of talent and smart mind. No wonder he started sleeping in a different bunk bed.

"Had fun?" I raise an eyebrow, standing straight ahead from him, holding my glass of wine and taking a sip from it a few seconds after questioning Matty.

He sighs. "I'm a little high, to be honest." His words are slurred, and a smirk comes out with them.

I shake my head. "I'd wish it was only drugs." I purse my lips, analyzing his appearance yet again.

"Maybe I had some drinks." He shrugged.

I lightly laugh. "Yeah, "some" is about right." I smile at him.

He manages to smile back through his intoxicated state, holding out his hand for me to take, and I reluctantly take it. He pulls me closer to him, and I can smell the mixed smells of women's perfume, weed and beer on him.

He lifts up my chin, trying his hardest to look at me, but he suddenly places his head on the crook of my neck.

"Are you okay?" I ask, in a worried tone.

He opens his mouth to reply, but failed, which I noticed when I felt warm fluid all up in my face, shirt, neck and arms.

Did he seriously just puke on me?